Most obvious, vapid statement of the year alert: the world is changing. In the broad sense, as the ice caps melt and polar bears are endangered and gas is $4 a gallon — everything’s going to shit. And to be specific, mine is, too. I’m unpacking clothes from four years of college that I’m going to have to repack to start the rest of my life. September’s not bringing a new semester; it’s giving me a real job in a real city with — really — no money. It’s terrifying, and some days I don’t want to get out of bed because I want everything to stay as it always has been.
In the midst of this, it’s a blessing to know I have a place that never changes. I visited my cabin this weekend to clean it up and prepare it for summer visits, and every time I step onto the property it feels the same way it did when I was 4 years old.
On the south branch of the Potomac River, south of Cumberland, Md., and near a tiny town called Springfield, W.Va., there’s a plot of land that’s been frequented by southwestern Pennsylvanian coal miners since the early 1940s. A generation went by, and soon my grandfather and his friends were part of the group, establishing a fishing club on the plot as a haven during their work vacation. My father and his family spent three weeks every summer there, building the cabin (and rebuilding it after a few floods), training for football and wrestling, fishing at every possible opportunity, and drinking Jack Daniels and Iron City all the while. Dad starting taking Mom in the early ’80s, she fell in love with the place, and we still go every summer. It’s brilliant to watch my father transition from the grouch selling publishing materials from our basement into the 25-year-old manual laborer and fisherman who lives inside him. It’s a remarkable transition I’m only beginning to understand.
At my house in Glassport, I can look out any front window onto the powerful, industrial Monongahela River, teeming with barges and probably genetically mutated fish. From the front of the cabin, I can see to the bottom of our stretch of Potomac. I can see the perfect path of rocks I’d walk on when wading across the river, and the big rock I’d jump from when I got to the other side. I can see small groups of smallmouth bass, waiting another few weeks until the spawn. I can see water snakes, which I’ve still never been able to catch despite my cunning attempts. Everything is the same.
I can still tear through a whole novel in a weekend. The only difference is that what was once Island of the Blue Dolphins is now The Poisonwood Bible. I’m growing up, but the cabin’s still there. Old Joe Coleman still greets us as we drive past his farmhouse, and we stop to see his new kittens or talk about the cows. I’m still afraid of the cows. They wake us up every morning, and if they’re in the road, I choose a different route. I still pick up rocks from the driveway to throw into the river from the deck above. I’m still nuts about fishing, and I still won’t touch a catfish. I can reel in anything and take it off my hook no problem, but I’m terrified of being stung. Regardless, I’ve always yearned to catch a catfish over anything else in the river, because I love the fight it gives me and the welt I get on my stomach from jamming the rod against me. I usually average about one per year, and it makes for a great night’s sleep.
It’s funny; they once tried to install indoor plumbing. We’ve survived 60-odd years using a pump system that pulls water up from the river into all the faucets of the cabin. Needless to say, we don’t drink it, but it was necessary for face washing and the like. I digress. They tried installing a toilet, and after a year had to get rid of it. We still use an outhouse, and my sister and I still always go together when we go after dark. On our way to the cabin, we stop at a small spring and fill up a few old coolers with drinking water. We still bathe in the river, and we still get a kick out of chucking the shampoo bottles upstream so they’ll float back in due time.
Still catch toads; still catch black snakes. I still flip over rocks to catch crawdads and hellgramites, because they make for the best fishing bait on the water. Now I fillet my own fish, but I still cut open the stomach to see what else they’ve eaten that day. A weird image, but all told, it’s beautiful. Everything about the place is beautiful. Now I’m in the process of becoming a member, so I can visit myself and take my own company down when I please. And any time I want the world to stop changing, it’s a magical thing to have the river, and a kayak and a book always at my disposal. Everyone needs a place like that.
The three-hour drive from here to there seems to evaporate into thin air, like it didn’t actually ever happen, because as soon as I get onto that stony driveway, I’m home again.
